The on-call room smelled of strong coffee and fatigue. Nina Petrovna, a plump, pre-retirement nurse with a perpetually stern expression, stirred sugar into her cup.
“Ten years in surgery, and I’ve never seen anything like this,” she muttered, not addressing anyone in particular. “A doctor going to work with a child in tow…”
Young Svetlana, only a year out of nursing school, sighed sympathetically.
“Well, what choice does he have, Nina Petrovna? Anna… well… she left. Packed her things and left. They say she went to someone. And little Dasha is staying alone. Igor Sergeyevich is just torn apart.”
“Torn apart, he is,” the senior nurse snorted, though there was no judgment in her voice, only bitter understanding. “Talent from God, golden hands, and yet life is like this. He’s been with his daughter for weeks now. At least the girl’s quiet.”
Both fell silent, thinking about surgeon Igor Sergeyevich. His name was on everyone’s lips in the hospital, especially after he took on a nearly hopeless case — that very patient from Ward Seven.
“And the millionaire?” Sveta asked, lowering her voice. “Is it the same?”
“Same as always. Consistently critical condition. Margarita… beautiful name. And a remarkable woman, they say. Brought in after the attack. Our top doctors shrugged their hands, but Sergeyevich clung on. He saved her. And now he won’t leave her side, still hoping she’ll come out of the coma.”
Svetlana glanced down the corridor. In a small children’s corner set up near the nurse station, a little girl with two dark braids sat, intently drawing in her sketchbook, paying no attention to the bustle around her.
“Dasha is just an angel. Such a good girl, doesn’t bother anyone. Looking at her… it squeezes your heart.”
“And Margarita’s husband?” Nina Petrovna changed the subject again. “Anton. He comes, sits for about ten minutes with a stone face, and leaves. Younger than her, they say. That’s all we know. Strange guy.”
At that moment, the on-call room door opened, and a tall, tired man in a white coat appeared in the doorway. It was Igor Sergeyevich.
“Nina Petrovna, Sveta, get ready. I think our patient in Ward Seven is showing positive signs.”
The children’s corner was set in a nook that offered a good view of almost the entire corridor, though the nook itself was not always fully visible. Dasha sat on a small chair, coloring a princess in a purple dress, when a man lowered himself onto the visitor bench nearby. She recognized him — her uncle, who visited her sleeping aunt. He pulled out his phone.
“How long do I have to wait!” he hissed into the phone. “I’m not paying for that… sniveling quack to experiment on her! She was supposed to… Anyway, do something!”
Dasha flinched at the angry voice. She didn’t understand all the words, but she knew her uncle was scolding her dad. Her dad, who saves people. She felt hurt and scared. The man abruptly stood up and left with quick, harsh steps.
A little later, while the nurses were busy, Dasha tiptoed to the slightly open door of Ward Seven. She was curious to see her aunt, the reason her angry uncle had scolded her father. The woman in the bed was very pale, tangled in wires, but to Dasha, it seemed she was simply sleeping deeply — like her mother when she was exhausted.
“Dasha, you can’t go there, sweetie,” said nurse Svetlana, who had approached from behind. Taking her hand, she led her back to the children’s corner.
Meanwhile, Margarita struggled in sticky, viscous, impenetrable darkness. She couldn’t feel her body, didn’t know where she was. There was only fear and endless loneliness. Where was Anton? Where was her beloved husband who promised to always be by her side? Why wasn’t he holding her hand, calling her, helping her out of this black nightmare?
She called for him in her mind, but only silence answered. Suddenly, through the dense darkness, sounds broke through. At first, indistinct and distant. Then she recognized two voices — a calm female voice and… a child’s. Thin, clear, like a bell ringing. A child. Somewhere very close, a child.
This simple, clear thought became a lifesaving beacon. If there were children here, then this place wasn’t so frightening. It meant this was the world of the living. She had to return. For that voice, for that sign of life.
Margarita gathered the remnants of her will, all her rage and thirst for life, and made an unimaginable lunge toward that distant sound. Her body was pierced by sharp, overwhelming pain; light struck her eyes. She opened them and saw blurry figures in white coats above her. People hurried, voices grew louder. She had returned.
When her consciousness finally cleared, the same tired doctor sat before her.
“Margarita, can you hear me?” His voice was calm and deep. “My name is Igor Sergeyevich. You’re in a hospital.”
“What… what happened?” she whispered with dry lips.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost three weeks. You suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. Do you remember anything?”
Three weeks. The number struck her like a blow. She desperately tried to grasp at any memory.
“I… I remember getting out of the car. Near our house. And that’s it.”
Soon after, Anton entered the room. Margarita had been waiting for him like salvation, but what happened next left her in shock. He didn’t rush to her, didn’t hug her, didn’t kiss her. He simply walked up to the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder — as if they were barely acquaintances.
“Well, you’ve woken up. The doctors say you’re on the mend.”
“Anton… I was so scared…” she began, but he cut her off.
“Listen, I’ve got an important call. Just a minute.”
He stepped out into the hallway, said a few phrases to someone, and returned.
“Rita, I have to run, business can’t wait. You’re being taken care of here. I’ll drop by later.”
And he left. Just left. Margarita stared at the closed door, a chill spreading through her chest.
He hadn’t been there when she was dying. He wasn’t happy when she returned to life. Not a drop of tenderness, not a word of love. Only cold indifference. And then another thought seared her mind.
Why was she lying in this — albeit decent — but ordinary city hospital? With their wealth, she should have been in the best private clinic in the country, if not abroad. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong.
And at that moment, from the depths of her subconscious — from that black void she had wandered through — a fragment of a phrase resurfaced, spoken in a child’s voice:
“If I were that lady, I’d pretend to be dead for real, just to see what her husband would do.”
She didn’t know where or when she had heard it, but the words pierced into her brain with startling clarity. The idea — mad and terrifying — was born instantly.
She pressed the call button for the nurse. When Igor Sergeyevich entered the room, she looked at him with a firm, determined gaze.
“Doctor. I have an unusual request. I need you to play along. I want you to tell my husband… that I died.”
“That’s out of the question!” Igor Sergeyevich recoiled slightly. “I’m a doctor, not an actor in some cheap theater. I cannot lie about a patient’s death — it’s unethical and illegal!”
“Please!” Tears rang in Margarita’s voice. “I beg you. I need to know the truth. I’m being deceived, I can feel it! Something terrible is happening behind my back, and this is the only way to find out. Please… help me.”
She looked at him with such a pleading, desperate hope that he froze involuntarily. In her eyes, he saw the same pain and confusion that had settled in his own soul a few weeks earlier when he returned home to find only empty cupboards and a short note from Anna. Betrayal. He knew that feeling all too well. With a heavy sigh, he nodded.
“All right. But just this once. And I don’t want any details.”
The next time Anton arrived at the hospital, he was met by Igor Sergeyevich with the most sorrowful expression he could muster.
“I’m very sorry,” he said quietly, avoiding Anton’s eyes. “We did everything we could. Her heart stopped half an hour ago. Sudden arrest… complications from the injury. My condolences.”
He turned and quickly walked down the corridor, feeling like the lowest scoundrel. Meanwhile, Margarita was covered with a sheet, her head completely hidden.
Anton stood for a moment, his face utterly expressionless. Then he slowly entered the room, approached the bed, looked at the motionless figure beneath the sheet, and, with a disdainful flick of his finger, jabbed at it. No reaction. And in that instant, his face twisted. He tilted his head back and erupted into a silent laugh that shook his whole body. He laughed wildly, with relief, like a man who had just shed an unbearable burden.
Grabbing his phone, he quickly dialed a number.
“Bunny! Yes, it’s me!” he whispered into the receiver, choking with joy. “It’s done! She’s dead! Do you hear me? Dead! We’re free! Everything is ours now! Yes, we’ll have to pay those idiots for their ‘work,’ but even less than we agreed. Why did they drag it out, couldn’t finish her on the spot… Well, never mind, the important thing is the result! I’m coming to you, my love!”
He turned to leave and froze. In the doorway stood Doctor Igor Sergeyevich, arms crossed over his chest. His face was paler than his white coat. Anton instinctively glanced at the bed — and at that moment, his phone clattered loudly to the floor.
The “dead” Margarita was sitting on the bed. The sheet had slipped to her knees, and in her hand, she held her phone, the screen clearly showing a video recording in progress.
“You… you…” Anton croaked, his face turning deathly pale. “You’re alive! You set this up! I will destroy you all!”
With a wild scream, he bolted from the room, shoving the few visitors in the corridor aside as he rushed toward the exit.
“Stop him!” Igor shouted.
“No need,” Margarita said wearily, shaking her head. “Special people will handle him now. The video has already been sent to the right places. He won’t get far.”
Igor Sergeyevich watched her silently. A strong, determined woman, who had just endured monstrous betrayal. When he left to give her a moment to recover, she leaned back against the pillows, and large, silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She cried not from grief, but from emptiness.
At that moment, the door to the room quietly opened, and a little head with two braids peeked inside.
“Does it hurt?” a thin voice asked.
Margarita flinched and quickly brushed away her tears.
“No, sweetie. Everything’s fine.”
Dasha stepped closer.
“Papa says big people cry too. But just a little. And then you have to drink tea with cookies.”
Margarita couldn’t help but smile through her tears. She reached out and touched one of Dasha’s braids.
“And what’s your name, little miracle?”
“Dasha. And yours?”
“Margarita.”
“Papa calls me Dragonfly,” Dasha shared her secret. “Because I’m fast.”
Margarita froze. That was her childhood nickname. She instinctively felt an incredible connection with this small, serious girl. Between them, a fragile and tender bond formed, like the wings of that very dragonfly. They chatted for almost an hour until Dasha’s embarrassed father came to fetch her.
The next day, uniformed officials appeared at the hospital. They spent a long time carefully interviewing Margarita in her room, taking notes. The machinery of justice began its slow but inevitable turn.
By the evening, Margarita summoned the hospital’s chief doctor — a bulky, important man who wheezed slightly.
“I want to be discharged,” she stated without preamble.
“Impossible,” the chief doctor cut her off. “With your injuries, you need to remain under observation for at least several more weeks. I cannot take that responsibility.”
“Then let’s make a deal,” Margarita’s eyes gleamed coldly. “I will transfer to the hospital’s account a sum sufficient to completely renovate the surgical department and purchase new equipment. And you… you officially send Igor Sergeyevich on paid leave. Immediate. For family reasons.”
He will serve as my personal doctor at my home. And his daughter, Dasha, of course, will go with him. She will be better off in the countryside than in hospital corridors.
The chief doctor’s face turned crimson. It was blatant blackmail, but the offer was too tempting. A renovation he hadn’t even dared to dream of was suddenly within reach. He imagined new operating rooms, gratitude from the ministry, a bonus…
“This… is an extremely unorthodox decision,” he croaked, adjusting his glasses.
“Yet extremely advantageous for everyone,” Margarita cut in.
Within an hour, all the formalities were settled. Igor Sergeyevich, stunned by this turn of events, moved into Margarita’s enormous country house with Dasha. Dasha was indescribably thrilled with her large room overlooking the garden, while Igor felt awkward and kept apologizing.
“Igor Sergeyevich,” Margarita stopped him as he muttered yet another apology about the inconveniences. “Please stop apologizing for having such a wonderful daughter. It’s thanks to her that I might have pulled through at all.”
Several months passed. At the trial, Igor sat beside Margarita. He had come to support her. When the prosecutor began reading the list of injuries inflicted on her by Anton’s and his mistress’s hired thugs, Igor felt a chill.
The dry, procedural language enumerating fractures, bruises, and contusions sounded far more terrifying than any emotional account could. He looked at Margarita’s profile, at her pressed lips, and in that instant, with shocking clarity, he realized that he could never again leave this fragile yet unyielding woman.
He had to be by her side, to protect her. He found her hand and held it tightly. Without turning her head, Margarita responded with a squeeze. In this simple gesture lay everything: gratitude, trust, and the birth of a new, deep feeling.
Igor returned to work in the renovated, gleaming new-equipment department. But Dasha no longer accompanied him. She stayed at home with her “new mom,” as she now called Margarita. Margarita completely reorganized her work schedule to pick Dasha up from school herself and help her with homework. Her business empire could wait.
One evening, as the three of them sat on the terrace drinking tea, Igor, nervous, proposed to Margarita. Laughing, she replied that she had been waiting for this for two months already. Planning the wedding completely absorbed them. To Igor’s surprise, the main organizers were Margarita and Dasha.
Together, they chose the dress, argued over the napkin colors, and compiled the guest list, fully absorbed in the joyful work. Watching his beloved girls, so different yet so dear, Igor Sergeyevich realized that he had finally found what he had been missing. Everyone was in their place. Everyone was happy.
